


A Most Infuriating Man

by Hllangel



Category: Mary Russell - King
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/pseuds/Hllangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At times, Holmes is extremely difficult to live with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Infuriating Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel/gifts).



> This story takes place at some indeterminate time in the future. I haven't read the newest book yet, so apologies if I've managed to somehow contradict it.
> 
> Many many thanks to my wonderful beta.

Holmes was not always the easiest man to live with, but one of his more infuriating qualities was a knack of knowing what I was thinking before I'd managed to figure it out for myself. The worst instance of this was his suggestion that I had tracked him through London to propose marriage, when I hadn't even thought of him as more than a close friend and confidant until that point.

That particular feat had never been matched in our relationship until now. For the long years of our marriage, Holmes had attempted to respect that my interests lay in academia, and not in the field, doing his work, as much as I may enjoy it from time to time. I felt more comfortable in the Bodleian or at my desk with stacks of books, a pen in hand while I slowly worked through a translation, or maybe a few pages of analysis.

We were sitting at home, on one of our rare quiet nights. Holmes was absorbed in his own thoughts, occasionally muttering while I read at my desk by the fire. I set down my pen, after striking out yet another idiotic idea put forth by one of my colleagues and stood to stoke the fire and stretch. It's possible that my movement got Holmes' attention enough that he spoke, or possibly he reached his conclusion just when I happened to finish my own thoughts.

"Why did you not tell me that you were thinking of leaving Oxford?" Holmes asked.

In truth, I had not thought anything of the sort. It was just that time in my work where the library started to lose some of its normal charm and where I spent more time writing than researching. I had always loved the thrill of the chase: finding one anomaly in a text and chasing the origins of a word through arcane dictionaries trying to find the source. I know that Holmes didn't view it that way, but my work was very similar to his, merely using a different medium.

Which is why his seemingly off-hand comment infuriated me so much. It was pure arrogance that led him to believe that his chases and intrigues were not only more important than my own (though in truth the cases did have a way of taking over our lives for sometimes months at a time) but that I suddenly felt the desire to leave the theology that I loved in favour of government games which, while puzzling, did not interest me in the slightest.

I refused to answer him. Instead, I quietly capped my pen, organised the papers that I was working on, straightened my books and left the living room. The bedroom would not give me space enough to cool off, not least because of Holmes' disrespect of any sort of boundaries, and the only thing I was absolutely certain of was that I did not want to speak to Holmes for a very long time. I needed space to sort out my own thoughts on the subject before discussing it with my husband.

My favourite old coat was still hanging by the door. I had not had an occasion to use it for several years, but I refused to let Mrs. Hudson get rid of it, no matter how little I wore it and how many times she brought up the subject.

I had several options for places to hole up for a few days, the easiest being the farm. Patrick still lived there and cared for it, but I could not in good conscience intrude on him at this hour of the night. My rooms at Oxford were out as well, as that was where Holmes would undoubtedly expect me to flee.

What I suspected he did not know was that I, just as he'd done over the years, had carved out a few hidey-holes of my own in both London and Oxford. There would not be another train tonight, but I was no stranger to sleeping on benches.

The night was long, and cold, and several times I wished I was back in my warm bed with Holmes at my side. Now that I'd stormed out, however, it had become a battle of wills, a familiar battle in our household. Going back would be admitting defeat, so I tolerated my chattering teeth for the night and caught the first train to Oxford. I doubted that the double-bluff would work, but it might buy me an extra day.

The room was in the attic of a pub, disused and blocked off by the owners long ago. Entry could only be had by climbing up and over the roof of a nearby building to access the small window that was the sole source of light. It was easier to access at night, with less possibility of someone seeing, but not impossible to do by day. The last time I was here, I left a few tins of beans and some cheese; not a hearty meal, but enough for sustenance at any rate, which was all I needed for a day or two. There was tea, of course, and a chipped mug that had been poached from our house at Sussex before Holmes could do the same thing.

As I heated water, I sat back on my heels and tried to figure out why Holmes' comment had stung so much. As I had told him many times, my love for detecting was his fault. I might possibly have stumbled into the art on my own, but there was no doubt that he was responsible for the level of my skills and the numerous times over the years that I've had to use them. It was indisputable that I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, whether I was physically chasing someone through the streets of London or chasing the origins of a specific translation. Maybe it was that I had not found anything new in the library lately. One of Holmes' cases would refresh me, but I had no desire to leave Oxford for good.

I had just come to this conclusion when Holmes himself dropped through the window.

"Holmes."

"Russell."

"I thought I would have more time," I told him.

"You hardly needed as much as I gave you," he replied. "I am relatively sure that in the last eighteen hours you have figured out that I was right, and I thought I would save you the trouble of finding me later."

"You followed me last night."

"No, I followed you this morning. There was no point in both of us sleeping in the station." He took off his jacket and went to add more water to the kettle. He produced a second cup from his jacket and laid it on the crate I used for a table. We sat in silence as he prepared the pot.

"You're wrong, Holmes," I stated as he poured the tea. "I have no desire to leave Oxford."

"But I am right that you are dissatisfied with your work here."

"In some respects, yes," I conceded. "My list of projects is growing short and it has been some time since we worked a case together, or took a vacation to the continent. I find myself stirring for something other than books and papers."

"Then we shall leave tomorrow for France," Holmes proclaimed. "Mycroft has been pestering me to take a case for him in Lille, but it should not take too long and we will have time for a vacation of our own. You're right. It's been far too long."

I stood and moved to sit next to him, curling into his side in a manner that I rarely attempted. "Do not think you are forgiven completely, Holmes," I stated, reaching for my cup.

I didn't need to see his face to know that he was smiling.


End file.
